


four dreams in a row.

by redhoods



Series: fictober 2019. [6]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, very mild blue lions route spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-29 00:03:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20953004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redhoods/pseuds/redhoods
Summary: He’s seeing how many constellations he can remember—he loses count after six, doesn’t bother trying to recount—when he hears footsteps approaching. It shouldn’t surprise him that someone else is out really, that someone else may be having troubles sleeping, but he turns to look and it does surprise him to see Sylvain, paused at the other end of the dock.“Oh, Linhardt,” Sylvain’s voice is hoarse, sleep thick, and Linhardt doesn’t think he’s ever heard Sylvain so quiet.





	four dreams in a row.

**Author's Note:**

> fictober day something was nightmares.
> 
> i have a lot of soft feelings about these two after making linhardt sylvain's adjutant for most of my blue lions run.
> 
> title is from a richard siken poem.

The room is dark when Linhardt gasps awake, dark because it’s night and dark because there’s a book on his face. He frowns and even though his hands are shaking and maybe all of him is shaking, he takes care to lift it from his face and close it.

He drops it to the bed and sits up, trying to recall falling asleep. 

All he remembers is reading, but he’s still in his clothes from the day and his hair has fully come loose of its tie. He runs his fingers through it and stands.

His dream—nightmare—haunts him when he briefly closes his eyes and, for once, Linhardt thinks sleep might be out of the question, even as his jaw drags open on a yawn. The door to his room creaks open, but it’s not as though there’s anyone in the room next to him to disturb.

Still, he steps to the door next to his own, touches his hand to it.

Thinks about Petra being carried off the battlefield, wonders if they will face her again.

Probably.

He drops his hand and steps away from the door.

The moon looks big and bright, so he walks towards the lake.

It’s quiet now, everyone’s getting much needed rest, even the cats seem to be off somewhere else as he steps onto the wooden dock. Somehow, it’s then that he realizes he’s barefoot.

That settles something in him though, makes a decision he supposes, and he sits at the end of the dock. How many times has he seen the Professor standing in this very spot, reeling in fish like they were born to do it? If what he’s heard is to be believed, they were raised to do it.

Linhardt dips his toes into the water, breathes out against the chill as he carefully glides his toes against the surface, watching the ripples spread out from him. The reflection of the moon warps and he watches with detached fascination. He leans over the side enough to see his own reflection, kicks again so his face warps and ripples.

Yes, that’s a pretty accurate depiction, he thinks and sits back, bracing himself with his palms against the wood.

He’s seeing how many constellations he can remember—he loses count after six, doesn’t bother trying to recount—when he hears footsteps approaching. It shouldn’t surprise him that someone else is out really, that someone else may be having troubles sleeping, but he turns to look and it does surprise him to see Sylvain, paused at the other end of the dock.

“Oh, Linhardt,” Sylvain’s voice is hoarse, sleep thick, and Linhardt doesn’t think he’s ever heard Sylvain so quiet.

Not that he can recall, for all the time he spends shadowing Sylvain on the battlefield, making sure he doesn’t fall to his own recklessness.

“I didn’t think anyone else would be here,” Sylvain carries on, because he knows, has carried on plenty of conversations for the two of them all by his lonesome, “I’ll leave you be.”

Linhardt frowns and suddenly being alone out here feels like a terrible prospect, “Sylvain,” he calls, drawing Sylvain up short where he’s turned to leave, “I would not be opposed to company,” he says and turns back to the lake. He shuffles over and pats the spot next to him.

A few seconds pass and he thinks maybe Sylvain’s withdrawn after all, but footsteps near him once more, quieter than they originally had been and when Sylvain sinks next to him, his feet are bare and his sleep pants are rolled up. The moonlight makes him look paler, accentuates the dark smudges under his eyes. He’s listing left a little as well, towards Linhardt.

“You didn’t get your ribs checked out,” Linhardt chastises quietly.

After the last fight, he’d been tapped for healing magic, but he’d made Sylvain agree to see someone about his remaining injuries.

The smile Sylvain gives him is patently false, but he doesn’t call him on it, “I’m fine, Lin,” he says and actually presses their shoulders together, “Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t help,” he adds, when Linhardt can no longer see his expression.

He can picture it.

“When was the last time you had a good night’s sleep?” He asks.

Sylvain hums, tipping his cheek onto his shoulder, his curls tickle Linhardt’s neck, “Almost six years ago, I think,” he answers.

Ah.

Linhardt can put the pieces together easily enough.

He hadn’t been there for the right against Sylvain’s brother, but even he hadn’t missed out on the multiple retellings of it. There’d been a strange consistency to each of them, gruesome and awful every single time. Apparently wars between brothers were immune to gossip warping.

It’s not so simple as that, he knows, but he can’t begin to fathom the emotional fallout of it all.

“Have you tried anything to help?”

“Linhardt, are you worried for my well being?” Sylvain’s bravado isn’t holding up under sleeplessness and the light of the moon.

He knows he’s not the only ones to have seen the cracks in Sylvain’s metaphorical armor, but he wonders if anyone else has bothered to ask him about it. War doesn’t mean they should lose sight of each other. Sighing, he tips his cheek against the top of Sylvain’s head, “Of course, I’m worried.”

The silence is very loud, but Linhardt is very good at silence.

Sylvain, however, is terrible at silence.

Thirty-seven seconds pass before Sylvain sits up and says, “I worry about you too.”

Linhardt hums, “I am aware.” His hands had trembled for hours after Sylvain had stepped in front of an arrow meant for him. Sylvain had brushed it off, laughed it off even with his eyebrows drawn together in pain as the arrow had been removed from where it’d lodged against his collarbone. There’s a scar there now.

It’s not even the only one Sylvain carries from protecting him.

And it’s only one of many more that Sylvain has from protecting others with his body and his life.

He’s unprepared for the fingers that brush his cheek, light and gentle, and more unprepared for Sylvain to speak again so very close, “I’d give anything to close my eyes and see your face instead of his.”

Exhaling into the night air, Linhardt tips his cheek into Sylvain’s touch, “Perhaps then instead, you could open your eyes to my face,” he suggests, heart in his throat.

The hand on his cheek stills, “What are you saying, Lin?” Sylvain’s fingers touch his chin, nudging gently until their gazes can meet. He hadn’t realized it before, hadn’t been looking for it, but Sylvain’s eyes are red rimmed and there are dry tear tracks on his face.

Linhardt lifts his hand, covers Sylvain’s with his own, “I’m saying lets try and get some sleep,” he uses Sylvain’s shoulder to push himself to standing, already walking back to his room, “it may be a tight fit on a dorm bed together, but I think we can manage.”

He can hear Sylvain scrambling to follow him, the smack of his feet off the cool ground, before Sylvain appears at his elbow, boots in his arms. Surprisingly, Sylvain seems to have nothing left to say and they finish the short walk to his room in very little time. The room is very dark and Linhardt debates lighting a candle, decides it’s too much hassle and crosses right to his bed.

The door clicks shut and he hears Sylvain drop his boots uncaringly to the floor as he’s gathering up all the books currently taking up residence in his bed, is careful about stacking them by his window and when he turns back, Sylvain’s simply standing in the middle of the room.

“I’ll sleep by the wall,” Linhardt offers as he sheds his coat and tunic. He leaves the fabric where it falls and crosses to the bed, shuffling under the covers towards the wall.

Sylvain doesn’t seem to need much more instruction than that, because as soon as he’s settled, the bed dips with added weight, “Is it okay if I touch you?”

Linhardt hums an affirmative, “It is.”

The bed shifts and dips as Sylvain gets himself settled and then an arm slides over his middle and Sylvain’s warmth lines up against his back, his breath stirring the hairs at his neck.

“Good night, Sylvain.”

“Good night, Lin.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm @vowofenmity on twitter


End file.
